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TO   THE   LIGHTHOUSE

of England—the Red, the Fair, the Wicked, the
Ruthless,—she  felt  how they raged  under it,
Kind old Mrs. Beckwith said something sensible,
But it was a house full of unrelated passions—she
had felt that all the evening.   And on top of this
chaos Mr. Ramsay got up, pressed her hand, and
said: " You will find us much changed" and
none of them had moved or had spoken; but had
sat there as if they were forced to let him say it.
Only James (certainly the Sullen) scowled at the
lamp; and Cam screwed her handkerchief round
her finger.   Then he reminded them that they
were going to the Lighthouse to-morrow.    They
must be ready, in the hall, on the stroke of half-
past seven.    Then, with his hand on the door^
he stopped; he turned upon them.   Did they not
want to go? he demanded.   Had they dared say
No (he had some reason for wanting it) he would
have flung himself tragically backwards into the
bitter waters  of despair.    Such a  gift he had
for gesture.   He looked like a king in  exile.
Doggedly James said yes.    Cam stumbled more
wretchedly.   Yes, oh yes, they'd both be ready,
they said.   And it struck her, this was tragedy—
not palls, dust, and the shroud;   but children
coerced, their spirits subdued.   James was sixteen,
Cam seventeen, perhaps.   She had looked round
for someone who was not there, for Mrs. Ramsay,
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